


Close Encounters

by JaneDavitt



Series: Close Encounters [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: Angry Sex, First Time, M/M, Teasing, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-18
Updated: 2010-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:50:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDavitt/pseuds/JaneDavitt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An encounter in the men's room turns fantasy into something else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close Encounters

Finding Spencer in the men's room was like biting into an apple and discovering half a worm. Disconcerting and it made Carlton's stomach lurch. He stepped forward and gave Spencer his best glower as the man zipped up and turned around, thankfully in that order. "For your information, Spencer, the use of these facilities is restricted to the men who actually work in the Santa Barbara Police Department, not wanna-be cop groupies with delusions of being useful."

Spencer held up his hand. "Before I throw myself on the mercy of the court, because, yes, I admit it, cops get me hot, well, handcuffs do, and cops and handcuffs go together like ham and pineapple, you startled me with your manly entrance and I may have splashed. Are you willing to risk the lawsuits if I walk out of here laden with pee-pee germs, or can I, as a tax-paying citizen of this fair city, wash my hands at the sink?"

Carlton shuddered. "Wash. Use soap," he said curtly. "Just don't even think about using a paper towel. You can air dry."

"You're really good at giving orders," Spencer said thoughtfully over the rush of water. "I think I like that about you."

"Just not enough to obey any." Carlton wanted to use the facilities but he wasn't giving Spencer ammunition for what was sure to be a series of ribald and offensive attacks. He didn't trust Spencer not to violate every section of the code and peek.

"You just never tell me to do anything fun," Spencer explained. "Or anything I want to do. Or anything involving both of us naked and moaning into each other's ears. Ear. Ears? Whatever."

Carlton choked on nothing but air and spit and felt the tips of his ears darken to rose. His worst nightmare these days involved finding out that Spencer really _was_ psychic and knew about every single stray, salacious, wicked thought Carlton had ever entertained about him. There had been enough of them recently -- Spencer had slapped his ass twice this week so Carlton didn't entirely blame himself -- to make him feel like turning his mind in for gross indecency. "I beg your pardon?"

The only reason he didn't pull out his gun and shoot Spencer dead where he stood was that the stalls were empty and no one else had heard that outrageous, disgusting, oh, who was he kidding, intriguing suggestion.

"Oh, Lassie-bear, you heard me," Spencer said, shaking his hands to dry them, droplets flying.

"For your information, any naked moaning I do is with women. And if I was -- if I did, ever, with a -- which I haven't, never --" Carlton took a deep breath and cut to the chase, lying as best he could. "It wouldn't be with you."

"I'm not your type."

It wasn't phrased as a question, but Carlton answered anyway. "You most certainly are _not_."

Was that coming across as believable, even if he could remember every time Spencer had touched him, so open and brazen with his wandering, slapping, tweaking, massaging hands? Sometimes, he wondered how good his poker face was. He practiced it in front of a mirror twice a week, but Spencer…he saw through things.

"Then that means that you have a type," Spencer said and he sounded thoughtful again which was never good. "If you just weren't into men at all, you wouldn't be so fussy."

"I'm not fussy!" Carlton licked his lips - another mistake. Spencer's gaze went to them instantly and stayed there, a warm, tangible gaze, which wasn't possible, but hell, maybe Spencer wasn't psychic, but it didn't mean that he didn't have other skills. Like looking at someone and making their body flush with heat and a shamed, secret desire. "I mean…" He was floundering. Again. In the dark privacy of his bedroom, late at night, he replayed his encounters with Spencer and anyone else who disturbed him (so many people did) and they always reshaped themselves into smoothly voiced victories for him, Carlton Lassiter. He was eloquent, witty, urbane.

"It's okay," Spencer said and my God, Carlton realized with a dawning hope, Spencer sounded subdued, even hurt. "I get it. I never was top of anyone's list. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, but I keep on hoping…" He sighed, too mournful to be entirely plausible and Carlton had a second realization, namely that he was being played. His hurt was genuine and it prompted him to try playing a game of his own.

"You mean you're not joking?" he said, careful not to sound _too_ eager. Spencer wasn't stupid. Loud, brash, completely free of any fear of embarrassing himself, yes, so that often Carlton felt embarrassed _for_ him, but not stupid. Even, sometimes, surprisingly bright, though Carlton would have sooner voted Democrat than admit that.

A slight narrowing of Spencer's eyes showed that he wasn't going to be easy game. Good. Bring it _on_, you heartbreaking, hot as hell little faker. "About what, Lassie?"

"About being interested in me. That way."

"'That way'?" Spencer made the words mocking. "What way would that be, exactly, my wound-up, repressed little cop buddy with the bedroom eyes? If my bedroom had ever been painted blue with a hint of violet, which sadly, it has not."

"The, uh, naked and uh, moaning way," Carlton said, forcing the words out. If his eyes were blue, there was only one other portion of his anatomy that matched them and the rest was the scalding, steaming red of anticipated humiliation.

Faint heart never won fair lady. He guessed it worked for fake psychics, too.

"Actually, I was joking," Spencer said with a dismissive flip of a still-wet hand. "You me, joking around. It's what we do, right?"

"Right," Carlton agreed, a sick bitterness churning in his gut. "I was joking, too, by the way."

"Of course you were," Spencer said softly, rocking back and forth just enough to be distracting. "I'm laughing on the inside. Really."

Carlton cleared his throat. He needed this conversation to be over. He had reports to write, coffee to drink, wounds to lick. "Are we done here, Spencer?"

Spencer nodded his head, a bobble-head nodding that didn't know when to stop, and Carlton watched another opportunity flash by forever. He could've leaned in and kissed Spencer before everything got labeled 'joke' and filed away. Could have pressed his mouth against those lying, taunting, teasing lips and found out what temptation tasted like.

Probably like junk food and tropical fruit, but that was a theory and he was a cop; he wanted the facts.

Too late now. You couldn't reopen a joke like a cold case and add to it.

Carlton decided to get out and find another men's room to use. Preferably one in Mexico. Somewhere far, far away where sharp-eyed psychics didn't haunt his life, waking and sleeping.

Spencer had stepped behind him two days ago when he was working at his desk and rubbed his shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tight knots of tension cramping Carlton's neck. He'd been babbling about a vision with the spirits apparently insistent that Lassiter buy cupcakes for anyone whose name started with 'S', but Carlton had tuned out the crap and concentrated on the blissful release Spencer's fingers had delivered. So blissful in fact that by the time Spencer had finished his speech and his massage, Carlton had been half-hard, tingling.

Mixed messages. Spencer was good at those.

He'd just decided to end this stupid encounter and retreat with the few shreds of dignity he had left when Shawn stepped forward and used Carlton's tie to dry his hands on.

Shock held Carlton immobile for a moment, but outrage had him moving, his hands rising to grab Spencer's wrists, his full strength behind the shove that sent Spencer lurching back, his eyes wide, his mouth forming words Carlton couldn't hear through the seashell roar in his ears.

He walked a captive, protesting Spencer back to the nearest wall and slammed him against it, his blood beating out an approving applause.

"You think you can use me?" he hissed into Spencer's face, noting automatically how dilated Spencer's pupils were, how flushed his face. "Is that what I am to you? Something useful, something boring? A toy?"

"Toys aren't boring," Spencer shot back and of course he wasn't going to shut up, even with Carlton crushing his wrists painfully, his body pressed up close and tight against Carlton's because he had nowhere else to be. "Toys are fun, Lassie. You should swing by my place one night. We can compare cuffs. I've got a whole box of stuff we could play with."

"I bet you do," Carlton said, the words spoken so close to Spencer's mouth that the conversation was as intimate -- and invasive -- as a kiss. "You would."

"I would," Spencer said and it didn't sound like agreement to what Carlton had just said, but to something else. "If you want to, I would."

Carlton couldn't remember being this aroused, ever, and not being naked and somewhere private. Anyone could walk in. Anyone. They had to end this now, but it would be like pouring water out onto the desert sand or a freezing man walking away from a fire. He couldn't do it. He relaxed his grip on Spencer's wrists and saw disappointment flash across the expressive face so close to his. With a deliberation that cost him, because right then control was hard to find, his stroked his thumbs across the tender, fragile skin of Spencer's inner wrists and felt the pulse jitter and leap for him.

"Would what?" he asked, snarling out the words because Spencer had to like him angry or he wouldn't devote so much time to putting Carlton in that state of mind, now would he?

"Anything," Shawn said and it was the first time that Carlton had seen what honesty sounded like from Spencer's lips. "You're hard, Lassie. I can feel it. You're a hard, horny Lassiter and you've got me right where you want me. So do it. Do anything. Push me down to my knees, bend me over a --"

The words hit Carlton like stinging slaps, snapping him out of the fog of lust and exhilarated fury.

"God, not here. Are you crazy?" He let go of Spencer's wrists and stepped back, horrified at himself for losing so much of himself, so quickly. Spencer scared him as much as he aroused him because he could do so much to Carlton with just a crooned word or a smile. "We can't --"

The door creaked, began to open, and Spencer sidestepped neatly, his lips pinched shut. Whoever was coming in was talking to someone in the corridor; their voice rose and fell and the door remained partially ajar, giving them a last few seconds of privacy. It wasn't going to be enough for Carlton's erection to subside. He'd need to go into a stall, hide out in there.

"Apparently not," Spencer said coolly, "but you decided that before the door opened, didn't you?"

"Please," Carlton said, helplessly. "I want to. Just not here, okay?"

Spencer glanced at the door and back at Carlton, then tapped his lips, his message clear.

_Kiss me. Or else. _

With a sense of crossing a bridge as it burned, exploded, fell into the chasm below, Carlton leaned in and kissed Spencer with an open door behind them, a fellow officer a few yards away, and a lot of tongue.

Spencer tasted of Funyons, salt, and root beer. And possibilities.

Carlton drew back as the door was pushed wide open and met McNabb's curious look with a stony glare.

Stall. Now.

Spencer smacked his ass just before he pushed the stall door closed.

It didn't help his immediate problem at all, but Carlton found himself smiling.


End file.
